


Twenty One Stiles

by xixien



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU - Immediately Post 3B But Before 4, Engineering Genius Lydia Martin, Facts About Animals, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Gestural Music Ware, Inspired by twenty one pilots, M/M, MUCH NEEDED THERAPY, Missing Derek Hale, Musician Stiles, Mute Stiles, Nightmares, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Songwriter Stiles Stiliniski, music therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-30
Updated: 2014-08-03
Packaged: 2018-02-11 00:36:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2046333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xixien/pseuds/xixien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a gradual change, unlike the abrupt and chaotic struggle they had overcome. Everyone was busy readjusting to steady, normal life again post-Allison. Derek was missing. Isaac, Cora, and the one twin left were gone, but with Kira and Malia to help make the pack feel less lonely.</p><p>It was hard not to be lonely. It wasn't like Stiles had seen people all break; between his therapy sessions and finally catching up on his homework [because no one told him that being possessed meant he failed three classes], whatever free time he had was often spent by himself doing the projects Morrell left for him, or with his dad. And it's not like a lot of people wanted to be around him while they grieved the death of their friend, who he basically murdered.</p><p>So he didn't blame anyone when Scott asked him how his break was on the first day back and he just shrugged, because they didn't know Stiles no longer had anything to say. Or the look Scott gave him when he used his Lydia Martin-designed gestural music gloves to make a 'whomp whomp waaaaaaaaa' sound to break the silence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. LOADING CD. . .

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first teen wolf fanfic, and I'm already finished with chapter two. I'll post it later in the week.
> 
> This fanfic is slow start, but trust me, this is going places! Bear with me guys.
> 
> If you want to discuss this or talk to me and tell me what you thought, xixius.tumblr.com or xixien.tumblr.com.
> 
> [First is my writing blog, second is my personal blog.]

“Remind me again why I agreed to help you make these stupid things?” Lydia asked, and he knew that look of concentration on her face. He tested tapping his fingers on his leg, and low and behold, she swatted him on the arm before holding his hand in place. He pouted. If he moved again, he’d wake up in the hospital. Granted, she would probably feel bad for it, but he knew better than to try to interrupt her while she was working.

Even if it what Lydia was doing to his hands felt weird. She twisted his hands around, poking with wires and wireless devices for the umpteenth time this summer. How she hadn’t given up on this secret project yet was beyond him. Good Lydia. Best future engineering genius.

He jerked his head towards the stacks of papers sitting in front of him – things to give to his teachers to explain the situation, progress reports, a few stray pieces of his summer school work he had shown to Morrell.

“Morrell and her therapy are not the  _only_ reason I’m making these,” Lydia pointed out, pointing her current tool – was it a screwdriver? A wire cutter? Fuck if Stiles knew. She had so many different things around his hands all of the time that he didn’t even bother trying to sort through them all. He was great at hacking and using the internet. Building things from scratch was much more Lydia’s department – at his face. “Give yourself some of the credit, Stiles. And will you quit bouncing your foot and just sit still?”

He stopped, offering her a sheepish smile. He glanced pointedly down at his hands, though. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m not letting you move your hands, so you have to move something else, right? Seriously, Stiles. You would think that after…  _everything_ , you’d be a little more, I don’t know. Grown up? Not like a fidgety five-year-old?” She sighed exasperatedly, but he knew that she wasn’t  _actually_  frustrated with him. With the gloves, maybe.

After all, they had spent weeks trying to get these to work, with almost no success – except that one, glorious occasion they managed to at least power on before shocking him so badly he refused to put them back on for an entire week[ and do you know how  _hard_  it is to refuse Lydia Martin when she is determined to do something?].

That’s probably why she wrangled him back into the chair and worked on it for almost a full day after that little episode. He spent most of the time watching movies or working on different kinds of projects with whatever free hand he had at the time. Video games kind of required full use of two hands, sadly.

Still, the thought of what  _everything_ implied made him tense up in his chair, going  _too_ still.

“Stiles…?”

A hand was rubbing slow circles on his upper arm.

He was staring straight ahead, but no matter how hard he tried to focus, he couldn’t see.

He felt a deep, gripping cold begin spreading through his body, as if he were slowly being frostbitten. All he could see was an all too familiar basement.

All he could hear was that fucking voice.

_You let them get injured, Stiles. It’s your fault. Isaac was in a coma. The sword in Scott’s stomach. Allison dying._

_Why didn’t you help them, Stiles? Why didn’t you save your friends? Why couldn’t you stop yourself from doing all of these horrible things?_

That  _ **fucking**_  voice.

Where was it coming from? Why couldn’t that grating, gravelly growl just shut its fucking mouth? Why did he still feel like he swallowed dry ice whole every single time it spoke?

_What if it was you, Stiles? What if you wanted this to happen to them, deep, deep down inside? What if you’re not who you used to be before we were us, Stiles?_

_You are never sure, are you? Of what you’ll say when you open your lips. Of whose words will come out. Of what you might let slip._

_What would your friends think of you? Of the insignificant, broken human that almost killed them all? What would they do to you, Stiles, if after the time we’ve spent together, you sound. Just. Like._ **_Me_ ** _._

His eyes began to sting with tears he refused to let fall. He blinked rapidly.

_You’ll never be able to look them in the eyes again, Stiles._

He could feel something too hot on his arms. Shaking him.

A different voice, getting louder. Something he couldn’t understand.

_They will never treat you the same again._

_They will never be your friends. Your pack._

_You are, as you have always been, alone._

Louder and more frantic, almost like nails on a chalkboard.

_But you’re never alone, Stiles. Not anymore._

_**“STILES.”** _

The first thing he realized was that he was that he managed to keep his breathing under control this time. Score. The second thing he noticed was someone sitting in his lap to stop him from curling into himself. The last thing he noticed was stunning green eyes that he couldn’t look away from, try as he might, because of some rather forceful, manicured fingers on both of his cheeks and under his jaw.

He held her gaze as she rubbed her thumbs in circles on his cheeks.

Reaching blindly around her to fumble for something on his nightstand, he held his phone between them. Scrunching up his nose and with his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth in concentration, he typed out a few short words one-handedly [which took serious skill, okay]. He then shoved the phone into Lydia’s field of vision, holding it as still as he could.

“Am not,” Lydia read out loud. After a thoughtful tilt of the head, he stuck his tongue out. Trying to recover, to get as far away from that moment as possible. Nothing out of the ordinary, right? Nope, nu-uh, a-okay here.

Her blink was a moment of processing what exactly happened and what the hell he was talking about, but she rolled her eyes. “Not that I’m going to fall into your little childish games,” she warned, fighting to hide her smile of relief, “but you  _ **so**_  are.” He snorted and chuckled and it felt good, you know? Having someone like this to lean on. Someone who made him stay out of his own head. Stiles raised both of his eyebrows and waggled them wildly at Lydia and she climbed off of his lap.

That earned him a good punch on the shoulder, and don’t let looks deceive you, okay, Lydia Martin could actually hurt when she wanted to because all those floral prints and perfect nails secretly hid the strength of an Amazonian warrior goddess.

He hoped for one solid moment that Amazons were not, in fact, real. He’d have to look into that later.

Their little moment passed. Lydia continued tinkering. Stiles continued staring down the sheet of paper on the bed next to him, trying to find the right words to finish Morrell’s weekly assignment.

Since what the pack really only referred to as _“the incident”_ [with quotes and everything, because obviously not actually talking about it and referring to it by a term often heard on CSI or by his dad when he’s discussing work made everything so much better, right?], Morrell had become a somewhat important figure in his life, if ‘important’ meant ‘being in charge of Stiles not going crazy _again_ and getting him up to mentally-fit, no-longer-traumatized-Stiles.

She had her work cut out for her.

The entire first month of summer break was spent with visits to her office daily, long conversations with her and his dad over the phone, and even talks of different types of medication to put him on that wouldn’t affect his Adderall, all because he couldn’t speak anymore.

And he read up on it, of course, and listened in to some of the phone calls. Selective mutism was a rare thing to see in children after traumatic experiences, but having it show up in junior in high school? So rare that a lot of people didn’t even know if they tried and true methods of dealing and/or overcoming it even applied anymore.

Lucky for him, Morrell wasn’t exactly your normal counselor. He actually explained to her about everything that had happened, about why he couldn’t speak anymore, about his nightmare. He explained that he was what was left when the nogitsune trashed the place and left, and he honestly didn’t know what to do about it. Her homework assignments _helped,_ which was surprising, because writing music? As a kid who sounds most of the time like a dying whale off-tune when singing? Bad combination. It gave him something to focus his excess energy on, though, and surprisingly? He was good at it.

He felt useless, because he couldn’t even really help anymore. Scott had been adamant about him taking time to get himself sorted out, that the pack was there for him, but of course he was. Scott was also taking some time over winter break himself to grieve.

Or to be at work, according to every text message answer he ever received from Scott, who was always ‘busy’. The cool guy and true alpha that Scott was, making sure to be the golden boy and always get to work on time. Besides, there was very little pack left: Isaac went with Cora when she left, because their budding romance was a thing of legend. [He still kept in touch with Isaac as much as possible.] Apparently. The twins, err, well, the one twin left, too, but no one had heard from him.

Kira and Malia were new additions to the pack, however, and they were rather… interesting, to say the least. Together. Or were they not together? They certainly spent their time attached at the hip. At least Malia was adjusting. She was… a handful, but deserved good things in her life. Kira was really concerned over Scott, though, and Stiles was speculating that that might become a thing in the future.

[You know, after Allison. _Allison_. He didn’t want to think about that.]

Lydia kept him updated on whatever he couldn’t figure out via texts alone, like how exactly Scott was handling everything and how Malia’s re-entry to human life was going. They were still working on her learning how to use a phone.

He was kind of bummed he hadn’t seen any of them in so long, but he didn’t want Scott to realize what was going on with him. Hiding behind your counselor like a five-year-old saying ‘you can’t play with me right now, Scott, I’m grounded’ wasn’t the most mature response, either, but he didn’t want Scott to figure it out just yet. He’d tell him. Probably on the first day back when he couldn’t avoid it anymore, but he’d do it. Just not while he was still a total wreck.

It had been harder convincing his dad not to tell Scott, but the Sherriff wasn’t exactly a big fan of this ‘isolationism’. He still remembers the conversation they had about it [“I don’t want you running around and getting into any more of the supernatural crap than you do right now, Stiles, but Scott’s your best friend, right? All this werewolf stuff aside, wouldn’t you want him around right now?”]

Speaking of, his phone buzzed, and when he looked down, it read:

            **From: Dad**

**heading home soon going to bring home dinner.**

**is lydia still there? tell her she’s welcome to eat with us and ask what**

**she wants.**

They ate meals together more often, at home or in the cruiser. He still talked verbally to Stiles, and waited to receive a text like the unnatural lull in conversation was completely normal and it hurt to make his dad have to live through this, but he could see the relief in his dad’s eyes, sometimes, when he thought Stiles couldn’t see him. He knew, you know? That his dad was happy he was, well, actually Stiles and not some supernatural super villain fox anymore.

“Who is it?” Lydia asked, and when he turned around the phone to show her the screen, she simply typed back a response before hitting send.

            **To: Dad**

**Yes, Lydia is still here. A salad, light dressing, extra curly fries and a**

**smoothie? Thank you, Sherriff! <3**

Stiles actually snorted when he read the screen, shooting Lydia a look before typing out his own response.

            **To: Dad**

**yeah that was lydia. just get me my regular. thanks dad.**

Their companionable silence stretched on until it started to become dark, and all the warning Stiles had before he was shoved up off of his own bed was: “There. Done just before the New Year, as promised. Try it. Test it. It’s done, and dare I say, even Stiliniski-proof.”

He scrambled to find his headphones, whipping through his bedroom like a mini-tornado – they were on his desk,  _of course they were on his desk_ , why did he even look in his closet? He plugged them into a jack on the underside of his wrist after a moment of fumbling from shaky hands and slipped his headphones into his ears.

If Lydia was amused by all of this, Stiles didn’t notice, but he did catch her smile as he about-faced to test out their technology baby.

His hands, finally free from the hours of confinement, danced through the air in a series of movements: exaggerated, flowing arcs; holding up various amounts of fingers; making different hand shapes; tapping his thighs, his stomach, his collarbone; drumming invisible sticks against invisible surfaces; waving his hands above his head, down by his knees; walking back and forth across the room, arms swaying beside him; robot-ing out certain arm positions; waving at no one in particular; moving in a way that could only remind someone of a hyperactive windshield wiper – and his smile grew after his and every movement he made until he felt like his happiness was going to burst out of him like an over-filled balloon.

His whole body was swinging to and fro to an invisible beat, and he bobbed his head to it, a smug grin on his face as he flailed around silently. He was a human Wacky, Waving Inflatable Arm Tube Man™, all gangly limbs and funny faces.

He heard the sound of someone loudly clearing their throat, even though his headphones, and yanked one out of his ear, raising his eyebrows at Lydia.

“ _Thank you for making those for me, Lydia_ ,” she said, and Stiles wildly did his best bobble-head impersonation his agreement. “Now. Serenade me. Play something. Anything. I didn’t spend hours slaving away on this project  _not_ to hear it for myself.”

 _Anything?_ Stiles mouthed to her, reaching up to scratch the back of his head. He turned to his laptop in thought, rifling through lists upon lists of song titles. What should be play? He didn’t know any of the songs Lydia would like – err, well enough to remake for her, anyways. Wasn't there that one Calvin Harris song? Something about... Nah, he didn't know it. Or like it. He crinkled his nose a little as he scrolled through iTunes, but he almost choked on silent laughter when his eyes fell on a certain song.

 _Hell yes. Oh, HELL YES. That’s too perfect, oh my god. Oh my freaking god, Lydia is going to love this. Oh, the irony!_ With a mischievous smile, Stiles pulled his headphones out of the gloves and flicked a switch on the opposite wrist to connect the audio to his laptop speakers.

“So let’s see it.”

He started simple: he held up his left hand until it was parallel to the floor to settle on a tone, and his right hand made a full, swift rotation to activate the software. He then rotated it slower until he settled on the instrument he was looking for, and in mere seconds, he was making arcs of string octaves and chords until he settled on the right set. Then, he began a simple strumming motion, using his left hand to change the chord progression. With a ‘crazy’ gesture, he made the guitar simply repeat in a loop.

Next, he held his hands in closed fists and began drumming in the air [a little over-enthusiastically with almost-head-banging and everything. He almost knocked over his desk chair in the process. Lydia snorted to try to cover up her laughter, but he felt it in his heart], creating the rhythm lacking in the song. He looped that next.

Then, he started to clap on the second and fourth beat. He did this for a little while, furrowed eyebrows and determined whiskey eyes staring Lydia down. When she asked him what he was doing, he performed the equivalent of a full-body eye roll before he grabbed her hands, forcibly clapping them together to the beat. Her lips pursed, but when Stiles pulled away to clap himself, she didn't stop. He then lifted his right hand, all of his fingers pressed to his thumb to capture the sound, and slowly opened to a flat palm. The clapping grew louder, like it was a whole crowd instead of just the two of them.

And he was ecstatic. He was on the highest of cloud nines, because  _ **holy shit**_ , he was making one of his favorite songs with nothing but his hands, and if that wasn’t insane – the good kind, the best kind, not the kind he and his friends dealt with all of the time since Scott and he took that romp through the woods for a dead body – he didn’t know what could be.

Lydia continued clapping along, her entire body swaying with the beat.

And without even realizing it, his mouth opened, and he began to sing. Lydia had often told him he had an unusual singing voice – not bad, per say, just unique in the way he carried pitch. She often said it worked very well for his own work, but rarely on anything else – but he purposefully hammed up this song to make her laugh, because, come on. He might not be able to sing it like a Rock God, but his song was too perfect.

_“Twenty-twenty-twenty-four hours to go! I wanna be sedated!”_

That was all it took to make Lydia lose it. She gaped at Stiles, and her mouth formed into a bright smile. She shook her head, rolled her head back to laugh. “This wasn’t exactly what I was expecting!” she pointed out over the music, but Stiles just waggled his eyebrows dramatically at her, like two dancing caterpillars, as if to say ‘ _I dare you to tell me this wasn’t the best idea in the history of ideas. And you’re totally into it. And you’re definitely going to jam out with me to this song, like it or not’_. She rolled her eyes at him once again, but when he held his hand, fingers to thumb, out to her for the second verse, she joined right on cue.

His throat didn’t tighten. Nothing clawed his lips shut. Everything was The Ramones, and anything that wasn’t could fuck right off, thank you very much.

_“Twenty-twenty-twenty-four hours to go! I wanna be sedated!_

_Nothin’ to do, nowhere to go home! I wanna be sedated!”_

**♭**

 

“So,” John started as everyone was almost finished with their food, “are you two ready for school tomorrow?”

Stiles almost choked to death on fries, which would have been a shame, since he survived so many better, less embarrassing possibilities for his demise.

“You mean did we manage to finish all of our winter break essays and packets without some kind of major catastrophe?” Lydia replied, smiling around the straw of her smoothie.

“Yeah, something like that. Did you finish your work, too?” his dad asked, turning to look at him. His hands flew into his pocket, almost knocking his phone to the floor. It would not have been the first time the ‘everything-proof’ case he had would have been tested.

          **To: Dad**

**i finished the last of it today with lydia before dinner.**

**all set and ready to get my junior year on.**

**To: Queen Bansheera**

**we are still finishing that last packet together before you go**

**home right?**

“Good to know. I’m trusting you two, so if I get any calls from your teachers on why my son and his best friends didn’t do their work over the holidays, I’m revoking some Lydia visitation hours.”

**To: Dad**

**oh my god you can trust me and did you really say that like I’m in**

**jail?**

“Don’t worry, Mr. Stilinski. I wouldn’t let Stiles slack off.”

“I don’t doubt it,” John agreed before looking at the two of them. His eyebrows furrowed deep, and Stiles knew what was coming next. “It’s been a rough month for everyone. Let’s just start the next half of the year out normal, for once. If it’s too much for you two – or any of your little friend group or pack or whatever you call it – just let me or Mrs. McCall know, alright? We’ll write excuses or figure something out.”

 _Dad, really, I promise, we’ll be alright. Don’t worry about us so much._ He almost kicked his dad under the table to get his attention, his hands running over his face, drumming on the table, running through his hair.

Before he could get any of that in text-form, Lydia beat him to it: “No offense, but if I survived being covered in blood and screaming in the middle of Homecoming, I’m pretty sure I’ll be able to handle junior year.”

He let out a sigh of relief and gave them both a smile and a thumbs-up.

“Are those those gloves you kids have been working on?”

Oh yeah. Right. He still had those on. Giving his best impersonation of a bobble head, he nodded before he corkscrewed his hand in the air. _Wakey, wakey, software. Let’s see if you feel like behaving!_

He then put his hands in perfect air guitar location and decided, what the hell, if he was going to play a song, he might as well play one his dad liked. He started strumming the intro to _Back in Black._

“Yeah, I finished them right before you called us down for food,” Lydia explained over the music as the Sheriff just beamed at Stiles, whistling a low note, “and Stiles was testing them out to make sure that they were fully functional. I’m happy with them right now, but we still need to tweak some things.”

Mid-strum, the guitar echoed around him and he laughed sheepishly, mimicking his starting movement to turn them off again.

“You say that like it’s something two teenagers threw together over December and not something I’m sure people in the music industry would die to have,” his dad pointed out, gesturing at the two of them with his fork. “I’m proud of you two, even if it does still have bugs. It’ll give Stiles something to actually make music on, and I’m sure, Lydia, you’ll be able to sell it eventually.”

He had never really thought about it that way, but his dad was right: Lydia could make a fortune off of these! Just imagining the way live concerts would be revolutionized made him stare down at his hands in awe, like he was holding a literal part of future history.

Oh my god, he was the tester for the next big thing in music. And here he was, playing ACDC at the dining room table. _Oh my god._

One of his best friends was going to be a music legend _and_ win a Field’s Medal.

He held them out to his dad, his face lighting up with what could only be described as shell-shocked glee. If he was bouncing a little in his seat, no one made a big deal out of it. His dad smiled back at him and nodded, and he full-on fist pumped into the air.

“I appreciate the gesture, but I’m not so sure I’d want to,” Lydia replied.

 _What?_ The speed at which Stiles’ head whipped around should have broken his neck, and he was sure his eyes were going to fall out of his head. He stopped chewing mid-curly fry.

She rolled her eyes at him. “I’m serious! I made it for you, and if someday I sell it to someone, fine. But right now, it’s our little project, alright? For you, to help you. What kind of jerk sells a present for a friend?”

          **To: Queen Bansheera**

**uh the kind of person who just CHANGED MUSIC FOREVER??!**

**lydia i totally understand that you made these for me and believe**

**me this is beyond fucking awesome but if you don’t sell these**

**someday and get your name on music for the history of the**

**human race I will come up with some kind of creative threat and**

**act upon it!!!**

Lydia read his text aloud for his dad. “Stiles has a point, Lydia.”

She pursed he lips, and Stiles knew he had won. “Fine. Think of this as product-testing then. And I just _happen_ to be using my selectively mute spazz of a friend as my guinea pig.”

            **To: Queen Bansheera**

**i totally resent being called a guinea pig but not enough to not**

**help you.**

**basically what I’m saying is I’m keeping these gloves and going to**

**test the SHIT out of them.**

**and some day when you become rich and famous for them i will**

**be able to say i got to be a legitimate part of the process.**

**so hell yeah.**

**♭**

The forest was dark, except for the flickering of fireflies.

Wait, _forest_?

His heart hammered in his chest like a hyperactive toddler who discovered maracas for the first time. _Breathe, Stiles. You’re still fine. You’re fine. You just need to figure out where the fuck you are._ Last he remembered, he had finished dinner, Lydia had left, and he had—

Right. He had gotten ready for bed.

He was so fucking sick of fireflies. One of them landed on his hand, and he raised it to his amber eyes, just staring at it’s light. It blinked, on, off, on, off, like a signal.

Stiles knew where he was now, exactly, knew that if he looked down, he’d see the cracked wooden heart of the nemeton, knew he’d feel the worn grain under his bare feet. After all, where he stood in dreams was always the same – it was everything else that always changed.

The smoke already burned his eyes to the point of tears, and his lungs tried to force as much of the burning air and smoke and ash out as quickly as possible. Heavy, harsh coughs shook his body, and for a while, he felt like he couldn’t breathe – like he would never be able to breathe again. He blinked several times, roughly rubbing at his eyes. Fuck tears, this was not _real_.

The forest was burning.

He couldn’t even feel the fire, the heat on his skin, because everything around him was already dead, just charcoal black lines against a sky of ash and smoke. In the distance, far beyond the treetops, he could see it, though, still burning, still destroying everything. It was the only other light on the horizon other than the fireflies.

And with all of this happening, he couldn’t help but think: _Smokey the Bear would be so disappointed in me._

“Wake up, Stiles,” he said aloud to himself, closing his eyes. Lately, though, that never helped. Counting his fingers only proved to him that he was, in fact, asleep, but it didn’t wake him anymore. Nothing did. “Wake up, come on, Stiles. You know this isn’t real. Morrell told you, you control your dreams. You know this isn’t real, and nothing can hurt you. You’re asleep right now, you’re—“

What was that sound? He looked down over the edge of the nemeton stump and what the literal fuck, why was he so high up? That was at least a several hundred foot drop, and were those— “I’m not even _afraidof_ alligators **!”** he groaned, rubbing his hands all over his face as stared down into the depths of a sea of scales and teeth. They hissed and snarled and writhed together like waves and despite what he said, he could feel the cold prickling up his spine. Were their eyes _glowing_ or were those just conveniently placed fireflies?

Yes, he was afraid. Of alligators. If those devil-spawn were even still considered alligators. Jesus.

Underneath all of the sounds, he could hear what sounded like a muffled drum beat, and each firefly that light up started to make sound, each one it’s own chime note. They were eerie and dissonant, and definitely in some kind of minor key. He cupped his hands and held them out, catching several before putting his hands up to his ear. The music thing was new.

**_“Beautiful, isn’t it, Stiles?”_ **

The ‘S’ in his name was dragged out, like a snake hissing the words down his neck. His tongue wet his lips as his body tensed, his hands trembling around the fireflies He struggled to remain calm. He forced his stone and lead and iron body to turn, and he stared himself in the face.

Except the thing in front of him? Wasn’t him. It looked exactly like him, his face, his height, his hair, and his hands. His everything. But where he was dressed in red, it was dressed in black. It had dark, bruised rings under its eyes, but those black eyes were alive and sharp and staring straight into his soul.

On his shoulder, a raven was perched, and it squawked a crazed sound like someone banging their fingers on all parts of a piano at him.

“You’re not real.”

**_“No more than you are.”_ **

He threw his head back and barked out a hollow laugh. “Funny, coming from someone I killed.”

The Stiles in front of him dipped his head, pursing his lips. **_“You killed me, but then, why, Stiles, are you so afraid of me if I’m already dead?”_** He wanted to wipe that cocky smirk off of his own face.

He stared straight into those black eyes, and he steeled his courage and he did what he did best: he lied. “I am not afraid of you,” he bit out. The fireflies all fled from them, and he clenched his fists at his sides to keep them from shaking.

 ** _“You are, and you can’t lie to me, Stiles. I can see you, and you can’t hide from me behind them here, Stiles.”_** The fox grinned at him. He trembled. It took a step forward with its hands tucked loosely in its pockets, like it was talking to a friend. **_“But I’ll play your little game. I’m dead, so you should be fine, isn’t that right? How have you been sleeping lately?”_**

He scoffed. “You would know. I’m sleeping right now, jerk.”

 ** _“Not good then. What about hearing voices?”_** He was grinding his teeth, forcing himself to stay eye-to-eye with it as it took another step forward. One of its pale hands came up to cup its ear, like it was listening for an answer. **_“Nothing? How about this one: still having those panic attacks?”_**

 _He’s not real. He’s lying to you. He’s not real. This is a dream._ “No.”

It hissed in a breath, scrunching up its face in distaste before it shook its head, tutting his tongue against his teeth. **_“Strike one. What about Allison? Or Scott? Or Lydia, Isaac, Kira… They’re all still your friends, right? They fully accepted that you tried to kill each and every one of them. You stabbed a sword through Scott, and he’s going to take you back with open arms?”_**

“Yes. They’re my pack. Scott would never—“ His voice shook.

It helped up two fingers. **_“Strike two, Stiles.”_** It took another step forward, and Stiles reflexively backed up, only to find his heel at the edge of the nemeton. **_“So you’re perfectly fine. No lasting side affects, no strange psychological changes? You talk and walk just like you did before you ever met me? Chat your friends’ ears off? Tell them you’re fine?_**

 ** _Or do you not open your mouth to speak because you aren’t sure I’m really, truly dead? Worried that you’ll open your mouth and what I did to you, what you’ve become because of me will make them see who you’ve REALLY become, huh, Stiles?”_** He was now inches in front of Stiles, so close that he could smell death. The raven pecked at his cheek, and he flinched back. He caught himself before he fell off.

“I am _fine.”_

If Stiles thought it capable, he would have said its face became almost disappointed. It shook its head, the smallest of frowns on its face before it reached out and seized the front of his shirt. **_“Strike three. Stiles, some day, you’re going to be honest with me. I will break you.”_**

He swallowed, but there was sandpaper in his throat. “You _wish_.”

**_“I don’t have to. I know.”_ **

The fox was standing in front of him in one moment, and the next, he was staring at an open sky. It took his brain a moment to understand what just happened.

The fox threw him. _What a fucking dick._

But in the next moment, as the air rushed past him, making him almost deaf, a train of thought collided with his current one in a screech of metal. _I’m falling. Fuck, I’m falling, and the alligators were beneath me._

His mind flew into overdrive, scavenging to find ways for him to survive this fall, but in front of him was nothing but sky.

His heart pumped loudly in his ears, until eventually that was all he could hear. It fluttered like a bird cornered by a large cat in a cage, bleeding and desperate. Everything he told himself earlier, everything about this being fake—How could this be fake? This felt so real, he was so _afraid._ He was falling, and… One truly horrific thought hit him then: _They are going to eat me._

_I am going to be eaten alive._

The snapping or jaws.

_I’m going to die._

A chorus of hissing.

_I’m--_


	2. TRACK 00:: HIDDEN TRACK: FOREST

**Chapter Two: 00:: HIDDEN TRACK: Forest**

He didn’t scream. Not anymore.

When he awoke, it felt like he was choking on his panicking heart. He was sweating, but cold, like a corps—

A dimly lit room. Where was he? Was he safe? Was he awake? No, wait, this was _his_ room – he could tell from the light of the full moon nightlight that Lydia had given him after ‘ _the incident’_.

He ran his hands over his body, checking for anything – blood, pain, missing pieces, bite marks. Nothing. Everything was where it should be. So why did he feel like everything was in pieces?

His breathing was way too fast still. Why couldn’t he get any air? There wasn’t any smoke in here, so why couldn’t he just fucking breathe?

He held his phone above his face, and unlocked it.

It was like staring directly into the sun.

He flinched away and almost broke his own nose with how fast he dropped it, but he managed to fumble with it enough mid-air that it landed somewhere off of his bed. He blinked several times in rapid succession, rubbing at his eyes, trying to get the spots to go away.

Manic laughter tried to bubble out of his chest. He can’t even unlock his own goddamn _phone_ without doing something to make him feel like, like he couldn’t do anything anymore on his own. Why is that just so _funny_? He’s killed people, and he can’t even fucking text the person he’s supposed to when this happens—

He looked at himself, curled up in a ball where the two walls met, his blankets thrown haphazardly all around him, his arms wrapped around himself, and he forced that train of thought to come to a screeching halt.

Breathe in. One, two, three, four, like a metronome. Breathe out.

He unwound his body methodically, like a puppet being pulled by strings, until his phone was in his hands. He immediately turned down the brightness settings.

The time stared at him. 3:38AM. He stared back.

He went through the numbers on his phone, and his thumb paused over Derek’s name. He chewed on the thumbnail on his other hand, just staring at the name of a person they couldn’t find, and he honestly debated sending him a message.

Stiles debated sending him angry, threatening words like _“What kind of werewolf fucking **disappears** when the entire pack is going through hell AND high water? Where were you? Decided you were too good for the funeral?”. _ He debated letting all of his pent-up anger over everything that happened to him pour into messages he knew Derek would never answer. He debated begging him to answer so he had someone to tell him to shut up and just be okay. He wanted to scream at him for being yet **_another_** thing he had to worry over, another puzzle he had to solve before he even had himself figured out.

He wanted to leave him a voice mail saying that he hoped Derek was alive, wherever he was, because he didn’t want yet another member to be lost for good.

He hated that he didn’t know if Derek was even okay.

He scrolled through some of the messages he had sent to Derek since his disappearance. Trying to find him, keeping him also up to date on the pack, even if he was a little pissbaby and decided to bail on them. Again.

He looked at older messages, pre-He-Who-Will-Not-Be-Named, at some of their conversations. He did, actually, text Derek fairly often when he got bored; it wasn’t like his texts on his phone bill weren’t 99% Scott, but Scott wasn’t into comics or old books or research. Derek? Derek has all of the Lord of the Rings movies memorized word for word because they were Cora’s favorite movies growing up and it was all she would watch.

He blinked the wetness from his eyes, choosing it ignore that it was there to begin with, and scrolled down to the person he was originally trying to find.

            **To: Alva**

**are you still awake?**

**who am I kidding you’re always awake.**

He didn’t even have to watch the clock tick by to the next minute before the reply came.

            **From: Alva**

**I am not, despite what you seem to believe, always awake.**

**That’s impossible.**

**I have insomnia problems.**

**Just like a certain someone I am talking to right now.**

**So, tell me, Stilinski. What was it this time? Clowns? Being drowned?**

**Was a clown drowning you?**

**Don’t tell me if it was.**

**My counseling has its limits.**

Stiles snorted into the silence of his bedroom, situating himself against his pillows. He took the time to pull his blankets further up against him until they were wrapped around him in a cocoon.

            **To: Alva**

**oh god no are you kidding me?**

**if i had THOSE kind of nightmares, i would never recover.**

**therapy would be a moot point. i’d have to just accept my fate.**

**From: Alva**

**It’s good to see you are still within my realm of help**

**and not going to accept clown-related torture.**

**Would you like to elaborate on what exactly brought you here this**

**evening? Or would you like to just talk?**

That, right there, was why he loved Alva. Well, one of the reasons he loved Alva.

Alva Metsänväki – yes, her name was actually harder to pronounce than Stiles’ first name, which is another reason she got brownie points in his book. Bet you can’t say that five times fast! – was Morrell’s assistant in the school, despite being a senior. He presumed it had something to do with her completing enough credits that she had tons of free periods.

And, apparently, enough free time at night to always answer his texts. He didn’t know if she did this with other people, too, but it definitely made him feel better knowing there was someone to talk to, no matter the hour. He could definitely consider them friends.

Which is why he sent:

            **To: Alva**

**we can just talk, if you want to**

**or we can discuss how fucked up it is that i was in a burning forest**

**and somehow managed to be eaten by an entire swarm of alligators.**

**what is the word for a collection of alligators?**

**i feel like i should know now after being so intimate with them.**

**From: Alva**

**A group of alligators is a congregation.**

**To: Alva**

**how am I not surprised you knew that like immediately?**

**do you just have that memorized???**

**what’s the word for jellyfish?**

**From: Alva**

**A bloom of jellyfish.**

**Though, a swarm or a smack of jellyfish can also be correct.**

**To: Alva**

**a SMACK of jellyfish?**

**man have i had the wrong favorite animal.**

**fuck wolves.**

**jellyfish are so much more hardcore.**

**elk? owls? cats?? flamingos???**

**From: Alva**

**A gang of elk.**

**A parliament of owls.**

**A pounce of cats. Or a clowder.**

**A strand or a flamboyance of flamingoes.**

**Also, you’re in a pack, Stiles. I’m sure wolves will always be your**

**To: Alva**

**that doesn’t have to be true 100% of the time.**

**tigers?**

**From: Alva**

**A streak.**

**To: Alva**

**otters????**

**[are there seriously any you don’t know??]**

**From: Alva**

**A romp of otters.**

**[Probably not.]**

**To: Alva**

**apes? flies? giraffes? peacocks? hippos? COCKROACHES???**

**From: Alva**

**A shrewdness of apes, a business of flies, an ostentation of peacocks, a**

**bloat of hippos, and an invasion of cockroaches.**

**We’re getting off-topic.**

**To: Alva**

**you might be right but i am impressed by your animal knowledge**

**so much so that i also feel a little better already**

**From: Alva**

**So. Alligators. In a burning forest. How does that work?**

**To: Alva**

**i was kind of on the edge of the nemeton again? the burning forest in**

**the distance.**

**and there were alligators at the bottom of the cliff.**

**From: Alva**

**How did you manage to fall?**

**Also, I see your point. Those alligators are in the wrong environment.**

**I will be on the lookout for future Californian, forest-dwelling gators.**

**To: Alva**

**i told you so.**

**also i was thrown off by he-who-will-not-be-named.**

**From: Alva**

**Right. The Nega!Stiles.**

**Do I have to go on the spiel about how you should not believe a single**

**word it says, that it is gone and is simply a representation of your**

**guilt, self-doubt, and your current condition?**

**I can remind you that you and your friends killed it to save your life?**

**Also, would you like me to walk you through the forest fire and**

**alligators?**

**To: Alva**

**i know it’s gone but sometimes it’s hard to believe, i guess.**

**especially when he shows up every single night.**

**but we can save that talk. i should be okay for now.**

**yes explain the alligators and the forest fire.**

**From: Alva**

**Forest fires represent healing through severe hardship, or that your**

**emotional state is harming those around you in a major way.**

**Falling is a very common theme in dreams, and can represent many**

**things: loss of control, being overwhelmed, recklessness, insecurity or**

**literally hitting rock bottom.**

**Alligators represent pride, deceit and hidden emotions. It also signals**

**your disconnect between your waking world and your emotional or**

**repressed subconscious.**

**Being eaten means you’re afraid of losing who you are.**

He stared at the words on his phone, piecing together all of the information she had given him, and when he looked at it logically, rationally, he had to say, it made sense. All of those things, all of those meanings were completely applicable to how he felt every single day since _“the incident”_.

He did feel like there was a deep part of him he was trying to hide or bury down deep where no one could ever find it. He knew it was because he was afraid of losing who he was to whatever this voice belonged to – again. He _knew_ it was hurting the people around him. Hell, he knew it was hurting himself all of the time, let alone the looks he received from his dad. And there was fact that he has hardly spoken a word [haha very funny] to Scott since the break started.

And Allison. _Allison_.

Even though it all made perfect sense to him, it still didn’t make the irrational part of his brain any more okay with being eaten alive by alligators. Just, no. Part of him even thought that it wasn’t good enough for what he had done to deserve these nightmares every single night.

The more he thought it over rationally, though, the more rationality won.

            **From: Alva**

**You still with me Stiles?**

**Or did my informational block put you back to sleep?**

**To: Alva**

**no i’m still here. just thinking over what you said.**

**and about how it makes sense.**

**From: Alva**

**And I thought for just one moment that I was actually good at my job.**

**Thank you for deflating my ego ahead of time.**

**Also, I’m glad to see you aren’t going to argue with me on this anymore.**

**To: Alva**

**well i wouldn’t say that. you are good at your job.**

**consider me counseled.**

**hey! i only argued because some of the meanings don’t exactly fit my**

**psych profile, and sometimes i need to stand up for what sanity i have**

**From: Alva**

**Glad to hear it.**

**Also, because I know you need to hear it: dying in dreams is completely**

**normal, if not a little unsettling. Death is a common oddity in the**

**human subconscious.**

**Especially someone in your circumstances.**

**To: Alva**

**i forget sometimes that you’re all read-up on supernatural things.**

**and that between morrell and me and lydia, there’s nothing you really**

**don’t know about all of the myths and legends in town.**

**cause you’re like a mini-morrell-in-training**

**From: Alva**

**I know you do.**

**And no, Stiles. I am a me-in-training. I’m not Morrell, nor will I strive to**

**be exactly like her. That’s stupid, considering I’m a totally different**

**Am I also still invited to Lydia’s New Year’s Eve party tomorrow night?**

**I can’t wait to meet THE Lydia Martin, anchor and once-future wife to all**

**that is Stiles Stilinski. And the rest of the McCall pack.**

**To: Alva**

**yeah as far as i know lydia is expecting you still. :D**

**i am probably going to try to sleep again.**

**my eyes have been drooping.**

**see you at morrell’s office tomorrow? we can go to the party together**

**after my session since you don’t drive.**

**From: Alva**

**I live within biking distance of anywhere I need to be. I don’t need to**

**I’ll see you at the office tomorrow.**

**Goodnight, Stiles.**

**To: Alva**

**night alvie.**

His fingers tapped idly on his blank screen. He should go to sleep.

He scrolled back through his contact list.

          **To: Sourwolf**

**if I find out you’re just sulking somewhere,**

**i’m going to go gandalf on your balrog ass.**

**if you’re dead, i’m going to find a way kill you myself, get that?**

**and I’ll come back as gandalf the white and you’ll have to answer**

**to scott.**

**you better be alive somewhere.**

**so I can punch you in the face for not being here.**

He tucked his phone underneath his pillow, leaving the vibrate on for the ‘in-case-of-supernatural-attack’ alarm. He closed his eyes. He dreamt of wolves and caution tape and sirens.

 

**♭**

 

**for the record I’m not exactly OPPOSED to this idea but**

**why are we standing on the rooftop of the school in the middle of winter??? I can’t feel my HANDS**

Stiles shoved the notebook into Morrell’s face, and he was certain she was smiling behind her thick wool scarf. Or smirking. Smilrking. That’s a new word he invented for the expression of enjoying watching Stiles freeze to death.

And yeah he was wearing long sleeves and a winter coat, okay? He even had a beanie on to protect his ears, because this was California. It wasn’t supposed to be twenty degrees outside, even if tomorrow was the first day of January.

He couldn’t even feel his fingers. He was certain he was going to drop his pen.

“Since we usually close our appointments with your music,” Morrell began, “and even though your project with Lydia is finished, you told me the one you brought for today didn’t have music yet, isn’t that right?”

He nodded his head hesitantly, narrowing his eyes at her.

“So instead of having you share inside a locked office, I figured having you share up here might help in ways doing it in my office can’t… Like being able to scream as loud as needed with no one around to hear and without it damaging both of our hearing?”

Huh. That was… an idea. It definitely was an idea, but he wasn’t exactly sure where he stood on it.

Because on one hand, yeah, she was right; no one lived close enough to the school to be able to hear him unless he was screaming bloody murder, and even then, probably not. And being able feel the cold burn in his lungs when he showed Morrell his weekly homework assignment would be kind of cool. Definitely a good way to get out all of this emotional gunk.

But on the other hand… He could hardly listen to himself talk out loud in anything louder than a whisper. Even when he was singing, he usually made sure he heard the music over anything he spewed out of his lips. How the hell did she expect him to just… scream into open air?

He swallowed thickly and shook his head to her before he scribbled on his little notepad again. [His fingers were trembling due to cold, so the writing wasn’t the most neat, but eh. They were still legible.]

**I can definitely see where that idea is coming from and bravo for thinking of it but seriously? I don’t think I can do that**

“And that is why I brought these,” Morrell answered, pulling two traffic cone orange earplugs out of her pocket. She put them in Stiles’ hands. “If you have those in, you won’t even hear what you’re saying, so you don’t have to be afraid. You won’t know if anything happens.”

**And if it does????**

“Then I’ll have you stop. But with how your homework assignments have been, Stiles, I think this outlet is one that it has no say in whatsoever. It’s your choice.”

He stared at the small, squishy marshmallows in his hands. Should he use them? It seemed almost like a coward’s way out of this whole thing, and the bad taste that left on his tongue wasn’t the best of feelings.

He shook his head again, putting them in his own pocket before he wrote:

**Can I just sing one I haven’t finished yet? It doesn’t have music or anything and since its short, I think I’ll be able to handle it**

“Whatever you’re comfortable with, Stiles.”

Well, that was a cue to begin if he had ever heard one. He swallowed again, flipping through the pages of his notebook. He knew the words by heart already, but there was something about being able to look at them for direction that made him feel a little more confident in himself.

He took a shaky breath in and out before he opened his mouth, and the words came pouring out, freezing in the air in front of him, barely more than a whisper. He could see the inspiration for the [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5daYd91k4ws) on his eyelids. “ _Down in the forest, we’ll sing a chorus, one that everybody knows... Hands held higher, we’ll be on fire, singing songs that nobody wrote…”_

He glanced at Morrell, who just nodded at him. He closed his eyes and straightened his spine, and he continued, wringing his hands in the air in front of him. He saw it, his life the way it had been skewed while he was not himself anymore.

_“Quickly moving towards a storm, moving forward, torn into pieces over reasons of what these storms are for. I don't understand why everything I adore takes a different form when I squint my eyes–“_

He turned to Morrell then, his hands moving, pacing, like he was actually having a conversation with her instead of saying pre-written words. _“Have you ever done that, when you squint your eyes, and your eyelashes make it look a little not right? And then when just enough light comes from just the right side, and you find— you're not who you're suppose to be?_

_“This is not what you're supposed to see. Please, remember me? I am supposed to be king of a kingdom or swinging on a swing. Something happened to my imagination._

_This situation's becoming dire; my tree house is on fire, and for some reason, I smell gas on my hands. This is not what I had planned…”_

A shuddering exhale. _“This is not what I had planned.”_

He felt lighter, somehow, like a heavy weight had been lifted off of him for each word he could say without the constant anxiety or fear of being heard. He threw both of his arms out, looking over the crisp night sky over winter, and with a deep breath, he screamed into the vacant parking lot and sky: “ _Down in the forest, we’ll sing a chorus! One that everybody knows! **Hands held higher! We’ll be on fire! Singing songs that nobody wrote!”**_

“And you said you were bad at singing.”

Stiles jumped out of his skin and possibly another two feet in the air. He turned around immediately to face a girl in a thick, patched military jacket, it’s giant fur-lined hood not even large enough to hide her mane of thick, wavy honey hair, which was home to an assortment of multi-colored beads to hold in few pieces of dreads. He could see a sliver of black, tight-fitting pants between her coat and her warm brown boots.

And she was staring at him with very thin, warm eyes and a smile that only ever curled up on one side with her hands stuffed in her pockets. She rocked back on her heels, like she was waiting for his reaction.

He mimed strangling her, his eyes bulging out of his head. He took a few steps toward her, pointing a very accusing finger in her direction, and then between her and Morrell. He then crossed his arms over his chest, huffing. He hoped he managed to convey enough ‘THE FUCK I THOUGHT YOU SAID WE WERE ALONE WHY IS SHE HERE!’ in his expression.

“Alva, I told you to wait down in the office,” Morrell chided, but she hardly seemed that angry with her. In anything, it sounded like she was about to start laughing, which was not helping anything.

“I was going to, but Stiles and I have to leave soon or we’ll be late,” Alva explained, her slanted grin growing. “’Sides, he promised to sing to me sometime, so it’s no big deal, right?”

He stomped over to his notebook, pulling the cap off his pen with his teeth, and began frantically scribbling on the pad.

**I fucking hate both of you so goddamn much you two PLANNED THIS I SWEAR TO GOD WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU CAN ALWAYS TRUST US, STILES, WE WON’T ABUSE THAT TRUST OR ANYTHING!!!**

He paused, scratching the top of his head, and sighed through the pen, scratching some things out and trying again.

 **~~I fucking hate both of you so goddamn much~~ ** **you two PLANNED THIS I SWEAR TO GOD ~~WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU CAN ALWAYS TRUST US, STILES, WE WON’T ABUSE THAT TRUST OR ANYTHING!!!~~**

**We ARE going to be late I guess so we should get going.**

**But you NEVER DO THAT AGAIN OR SO HELP ME THERE WILL BE PAIN. I KNOW MY WAY AROUND WEREWOLVES, LADY. I CAN TAKE YOU. PROBABLY. MAYBE.**

“Is that… a very angry smiley face?” Morrell questioned, lips pursed.

“With very expressive angry eyebrows,” Alva pointed out.

“For the record, Stiles, we didn’t plan this ahead of time,” Morrell said, pulling the conversation back on topic. “Since you did promise to sing for her anyway, it’s not so bad, right?”

Stiles crossed his arms again, but looked away from them.

“Look, I’m sorry, Stiles,” Alva said, and even though he could hear how sincere her words sounded, they didn’t justify interfering with his sessions. “I know we made an agreement early on that I had to announce ahead of time when I would sit-in on sessions. We really will be late if we don’t leave now, and I had originally thought you two were already done.”

He mulled what she said over, nose scrunched up, but he eventually sighed, running both hands crazily through his hair. Instead of using the notebook – because notebooks were great and all, but texting was just so much faster and the only reason he used it with Morrell was because he didn’t have her cell phone number, only the school’s number for her office – he sent:

 

> **To: Alva**
> 
> **okay i get that but you need to promise not to do that again**
> 
> **without at least, I don’t know, knocking first? or at least tell us**
> 
> **you’re coming. like, way ahead of time. please.**
> 
> **and you’re not forgiven yet because my own father doesn’t even hear**
> 
> **this stuff okay?**
> 
> **thats how fucked up this is for me.**
> 
> **i can only do this with morrell  because of the whole**
> 
> **confidentiality thing.**
> 
> **and if you fuck that up, we can’t make progress**
> 
> **and fix all of my issues post-possession, okay?**
> 
> **lydia martin party or no.**

As Alva handed Morrell the phone for her to look over the message, she nodded, a slow and calculated movement. Her eyes held steady with his. “Right. I understand. I’m still sorry, but look at it this way; if you forgive me, I’ll help you and Lydia explain all of this to Scott.”

 

> **To: Alva**
> 
> **you evil, sneaky Slytherin you.**

“Right back at you, Stilinski. Come on. I’m stealing you.”

Stiles glanced over to his counselor, trying to gauge her reaction to his entire situation. If her sigh but smiling eyes were any indication, he figured she didn’t _really_ mind that he was leaving a little earlier.

Probably because he was going to the event they had been discussing for the past week: Lydia’s New Year’s Eve party, where he would be in the same room with Scott, Kira, Malia, Danny and who knows who else. After all, it was _Lydia_ throwing the event. Stiles had no idea who else she was planning on seeing.

He refused to think about how many people could possibly fit in Lydia’s lake house. Nope, nu-uh, if there were more people than just the usual pack, he didn’t know how he’d be able to handle it. Fuck, _if_ he could handle it at all.

_Maybe I shouldn’t go._

**_Worried they’ll cast you out for being weak?_ **

_La-la-la I’m not listening! I don’t have time for your shit right now._

He walked over to Alva, raising his hand to fist bump her.

He watched the way her body tensed into firm lines, her eyes hardening as she looked at his hand. It wasn’t like he was going to punch her, but she knew that. He knew she knew that, just like he knew she had some weird thing about touching. He didn’t know if it was a fear of germs or a personal space issue. He didn’t ask, she didn’t tell him.

Still, once it appeared like she braced herself, she bumped his fist before turning and falling into stride with him.

“So,” Alva said once they made their way into the Jeep, waiting for Stiles to turn on the engine. “I think I’m about as ready to meet the McCall pack as I’m ever going to be. Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry it took so long for me to post this, but I'm glad I took the extra time to finish this!
> 
> The major plot takes off in the next chapter, so I'll see you guys there.


End file.
